well,
stupidly, i looked for them
and scanned your
lightweight chatty metaphors
for me
and found relief
when i was not
there.
i am not ashamed
to still consider you
a force that drives these fingers
clicking into keys,
scrambling for a working pen.
the moleskine, a christmas gift,
was momentary.
you are still a shooed away thought
in masturbation
and before dreaming while
i am an absentee
in your whispering year.
i am the jump from fall
to summer then back
to constant november
to a mid july
where i can't beg
enough to be blinded
or silenced
just enough to get some sleep.
i try not to take it
too personally.
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